


A Load Shared

by CantStopImagining



Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6697432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantStopImagining/pseuds/CantStopImagining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they finally come together, it feels as natural as waking up in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Load Shared

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: dedicated to the lovely @biscay, without whom this probably (definitely) wouldn’t exist. Disregards quite a lot of canon and I don’t feel bad about it. Using prompts from the 100 ways to say I love you post on tumblr.

The house has long since become as much Teresa’s as it is hers, the contents shared between them. The mountain of accounting books and papers on her desk blends and mixes with the stacks of school books and reports. When Boris’ excited claws tear a sizeable hole in the old blanket she spreads out over the settee, Teresa’s shawl replaces it. They share spaces with the choreographed movements of people who know each other’s routine as well as their own, with a fluidity that’s engrained itself in their bones over a short period of time. Alison loses her watch, or a shoe, and Teresa’s there, holding it out to her, before she can even voice her frustration. They fit together like cogs, pushing off one another, as if they’ve been there, the two of them, together, the whole time.

Even with Boris for company, the house had felt overbearing and lonely without George. That period of time - thought of as ‘after George; before Teresa’ - is the unhappiest she can remember, but it’s merely a faint memory. If anything, living with Teresa, being with Teresa is easier. It makes more sense. They don’t bicker over newspapers and coffee cup rims in the mornings. They laugh and gossip into the night, and Teresa wordlessly pours more tea without being asked to, and when Alison stands to take Boris for a walk, she almost anticipates the hand that slips into her own before it does. She may have always considered herself fiercely independent, but somehow she doesn’t mind having this extra person around, not when it’s Teresa.

She did love George. She did. Even with the absent bickering, every moment of discontent was matched by a moment she stores away in the back of her mind, doubled, precious and beautiful and still whole, even as somebody else takes his place. This is different though. George might have been her anchor, a place to rest her body at the end of a weary night, the first man who ever made her feel butterflies, the first chest she lay her head on to dance, and later to sleep; but Teresa is different. She doesn’t think it dampens his memory. She thinks she ought to be more confused, more disgusted by herself, perhaps, but she isn’t. It seems inevitable, now that she thinks about it, that they would end up together like this. As soon as she’d known about Connie, as soon as she’d heard Teresa’s Big Bad Secret, the parts had begun to fall into place, and from there on out, it was only a matter of time. A brush of hands and a panicked apology, a whispered ‘you look lovely tonight’, the deep blush that travelled across Teresa’s chest, over her usually milky, pale cheeks. Teresa kissing her cheek and inching closer to her mouth, but too afraid, always pulling back, always leaving that unfamiliar ache in Alison’s chest. ‘Sit down, I’ll get it’ and ‘don’t worry you can borrow mine’ and the soft warmth of Teresa’s cardigan draped around her shoulders, strong with her perfume and feeling like arms wrapping tight around her. Swaying at night in front of the window with nothing but the moon and a radio broadcast for company, her hands gingerly resting on Teresa’s hips and her eyes trained on her lips. 

When they finally come together, it feels as natural as waking up in the morning. Teresa’s lips are as she imagined them to be; soft and gentle, but commanding, even as she hesitates, asks again if she’s sure it’s okay. Alison surprises herself by initiating the second kiss, holding Teresa closer, hands snaking shakily around her, wanting to feel everything but at the same time, needing the slow burn, the progression, the learning everything bit by bit, as much because it’s new as because she wants to remember it all, make the most of it.

When they fall against the wall of the air raid shelter, cotton-clad backs hitting cement and metal and brick, she can’t quite bring herself to look away, to pay attention to whose eyes may or may not be on them. Teresa’s hand is safe in hers, grabbed in haste, fingers intertwined (she tries not to glimpse that band of gold on her own finger, tries to hide it between them), and that seems like all that matters. She doesn’t think she breathes again until they’re outside, and the clean air feels suffocating, and it isn’t relief that she feels so much as despair that this won’t be the last time.

Alison closes her eyes and presses her head deep into a lumpy pillow and tries to sleep, but she can hear the wind rattling the window panes, even with the thick tape across the joints, and she can hear Boris whining from his bed, and she can’t stop thinking about Teresa lying on the other side of the wall. She runs her fingers along the wallpaper, but it isn’t close enough, even imagining Teresa’s tracing her own, and in a moment of surprise determination, she slides out of bed, closing the gap.

Only, once she's there, standing in the doorway, Teresa’s body bathed in a slither of light, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, and she doesn’t feel so confident.

Teresa turns over. Alison had imagined her asleep, thought that she might just stay and watch for a while, hadn’t expected the bleary smile, the body shifting over, beckoning her closer.

“There’s enough room for both of us.”

She doesn’t know why she’s making such a big deal of it, it’s just a bed, but then, perhaps it is a big deal. She slides under the covers, careful not to drag her cold limbs against Teresa’s, and her body fits firm against Teresa’s, cradled against her, warm and safe. She thinks it should feel more unfamiliar, but it doesn’t. It feels like coming home after a long, long time away.

Teresa presses a lazy kiss to her shoulder, nestles behind her, whispers good night.

Finally, Alison sleeps.


End file.
